Dr. Henry, Dr. Ruby and Dad

Len is not feeling well today. :(

And don't worry, he isn't hung over from our fun Night with Scots last night. Not even close.

Whenever one of us has a fever, headache, and general aches, we do a blood test for malaria.

This is a simple test that is over 99% accurate for diagnosing malaria, and since malaria is very treatable with early diagnosis and treatment, we keep the tests on hand at home and have used a handful of them in the 9 months we've lived in Dar. Henry was our last test subject, and was more than happy to help with his Dad's test. The kids were especially interested in seeing Len get his finger pricked, as that is their least favorite thing in the world right now.

We spread out the testing materials on the table and Henry helped clean Len's finger for the jab. We needed a good drop of blood to go into the middle hole of the test strip. Daddy was very brave.

Five drops of a watery tincture into the hole on the end, and 15 minutes later, you have an answer!

Fifteen minutes is a long time to three and five year olds, so we mixed up a batch of gluten-free mini cupcakes from Taste of Home's Harlequin Cake recipe while we waited. Substituted maize flour for the wheat and DariFree for milk; it's our favorite chocolate cake right now! We didn't bother with the fancy whipped cream and jam topping, although it is delicious that way.

During this time, Henry looked right at Len, and said in a serious tone, "Daddy, if this test has two lines, then you have malaria in you."

"They shouldn't call it positive if  you have malaria, because positive means good, and having malaria is bad." added Ruby.

I love those kids.

Fifteen minutes later, we have good news: the cake bites are done, and Len does not have malaria.

However, he is still not feeling well, and we covet your prayers. He has a big work week coming up and we'll be praying and nursing him along as he will be home only late at night to sleep, then gone again each morning. But I know God has it planned out already!

Thank you for your partnership in prayer and providing for us to be able to be here. We are thankful daily for your sacrifices and we strive to be good stewards of what God has given.

Night of the Scots

We had a fun time last night at the Scottish Club ball, an annual affair that raises funds for various local charities. Sorry I didn't take photos. It was a very nice event, even by American standards. A typical table-driven fundraiser, where local businesses and individuals purchase a 10-top table and fill the seats. We went as guests of some dear English friends.

A lively, fun rivalry exists between the English and Scottish, and it was played up throughout the night. The Scot men were in kilts and full traditional garb, and everyone else was dressed up. The decorations were well done in Scotland flags: blue and white lights, and there must have been an army of generators somewhere making sure the lights and sound system didn't falter throughout the night.

The glorious music was mostly from a bagpiper and drummer who were flown in for the event. They rocked out on traditional and funky fare, and the drummer broke out of the sticks-on-rims sound and was jammin' on African djembe. These two were really athletic in their playing and the crowd thrilled at their every note. There was lots of all-inclusive Scottish dancing as well, with a chain-smoking older lady in a flowing white gown teaching us several dances, and harshly reprimanding those who erred.

This was a Burns supper, celebrating the life and poetry of Robert Burns, whose birthday is celebrated on January 25. I'm certain that if poets were celebrated like this in schools around America, students would care more. Sex, whisky and haggis (HAG-gas) were central themes of the Burns-inspired banter.

Haggis was a big topic of the dinner and conversation; I had no idea what this was. As it turns out, this is probably for the best, and it is also good that I couldn't understand most of the thickly accented speeches from the Scottish speakers. Our pastor, who is from northern England and is at times hard for me to understand due to his thick accent, will forever be easy for me to understand after hearing the Scot spin on English last night.

Haggis, it turns out, is a dish containing sheep's 'pluck' (heart, liver and lungs), minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, mixed with stock, and traditionally simmered in the animal's stomach for approximately three hours. It was actually quite tasty. Served with 'neeps and tatties' (this is not part of the sexual joking of the evening), which are mashed yellow turnips and very peppery mashed potatoes, with sides of nice green beans and carrots, a fine Scottish stew with tender meat, soft rolls and dark green salad. None of these foods are easily found here, so it was all an extra-special treat. Dessert was fresh pineapple, papaya and mango with real ice cream, also a treat.

Here is a sample of a Burns poem about Haggis that was read. Please note that the Scottish version is in regular font, with an interpretation in italics:

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,                       
Nice seeing your honest, chubby face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race!                   
Great chieftain of the sausage race!
Aboon them a' ye tak yer place,                     
 Above them all you take your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:                                    
Belly, tripe, or links:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace                          
Well are you worthy of a grace
As lang's my airm.                                          
As long as my arm.

There are several other stanzas, but you get the idea. The Scots take their stomach-baked entrails very seriously! In all fairness, haggis is a dear part of Scottish history, as it sustained many poor people in hard times.

As for whisky, I guess I knew it was Scottish, but had no idea what a central role it played in a meal. Or maybe just that meal of rowdy expats last night. I did try a small amount of a whisky-oatmeal-milk-honey concoction that reinforced my suspicion that I don't like whisky.

The company at our table was lovely, and at the request of my husband I did not engage the CDC epidemiologist in any sort of discussion about immunology or vaccines. Aren't I a good girl?

It's a Rat! It's a Crab! It's a...BIG, HAIRY SPIDER!

While watching a cartoon with the kids this morning, I saw what I thought was a small rat run past the door of the room we were in. Lizards, millipedes, and various other critters are known to live in our house, some more welcome than others. But we have yet to see a rat inside here, and I investigated.

The thing was nestled between the hinge side of the door and the frame, on the floor. It appeared to be a medium-sized crab, and I hopped out of the way as it scuttled around to the other side of the door.

Now it was in better light, and I saw it was not a crab. I tried to study it without alarming it. Not a crab...wide oblong body with a white disc underneath...counting legs...YESSIREEBOY that's a spider!

Mom will be proud to hear that I did try to catch it in a jar and put it outside unharmed. I really did. But even the big empty pickle jar in the pantry was going to cut Mrs. Spider's legs off if I tried to trap it outright. Mama taught me to do no unnecessary harm to creatures big or small. So I tried trapping it in a large plastic food storage container.

Mrs. Spider was way, way too fast for me. Two clumsy feet are no match for eight long legs. She was looking pretty creepy with that white thing on her belly. Which I suspected was a lot of baby spiders waiting to infiltrate my house. I really didn't want to kill all of them. Spiders eat bugs! They are good!

So I got the broom and tried sweeping her toward the door. But our broom has pretty soft bristles, and I was just irritating her and she started running all over the place, and the kids were getting curious at this point.

I am not proud to say my next decision was based somewhat on irrational fear. Retrieving the Hit poison spray, I found Mrs. Spider, and, apologizing, sprayed her down.

She immediately ran into the bathroom and disappeared.

Apparently, I just irritated her. Great.

We needed to leave, so I checked the bathroom, no spider...I decided to try and track her down when we returned.

An hour later, we were home and I decided to use my camera to look behind the pedestal sink rather than stick my head underneath it.

Not there.

No spider. I was pretty sure I Hit her (haha) and kept looking...sure enough, she had crawled out from wherever she was and was looking pretty dead.

If you know me, you know that spiders, snakes and other creepy-crawlies usually don't bother me. In fact, I find them more interesting than frightening. This one was definitely interesting to me. Big, round body and hairy, segmented legs.

She had cool markings on her posterior to resemble a larger animal:

And this one was breaking my heart, with her membranes all twisted out in the throes of a poisoned death. She was someone's mama!

She was this someone's mama. I stopped counting at 40 as I cleaned them up.

I'm not sure what it is about hairy spiders that makes me dislike them more than their sleeker cousins, but this girl had some serious bristle going on:

Henry supervised the collection of the spider, egg sac and babies into the pickle jar, and the kids have been studying it all day. We measured the leg segments and body, and at it's widest, it measures just under four and a half inches. Not bad for the day's catch.

Fun Friday

With Len in Kenya this week, we've had a more relaxed schedule. And despite the heaviness of some of my recent post topics, we do have quite a bit of fun here. Kids cause incidents of smiling to skyrocket.

Henry did say that it's more fun when Daddy's home. Len liked that.

Ruby and several friends attended a birthday party for one of their classmates. She and Happy got their faces painted with all things girly, but the pink glittery lipstick on Ruby made me thankful she goes to a school that doesn't allow makeup. Happiness had three glorious afro puffs on top of her head. Wear it proud!

Reading has always been a favorite activity, even moreso lately with the frequent power cuts. Shel Silverstein is a current favorite and we've put "I'm Being Eaten by a Boa Constrictor" to song. Their eyes light up in anticipation of the "mmmmmmhmmmmhmmmm" at the end, as the boa eats the narrator's head, and they laugh wildly. Funny little people.

Henry asked me to read "The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe" to him this week, and I said sure, thinking that he would lose interest after a page or two without so many illustrations, but we are now on chapter eight. He loves it and asks great questions about Mr. Tumnus and who ratted him out, and why Edmund likes Turkish delight and the White Witch.

I call this my 'dewey radiance' look. It's almost 100 degrees here and we are getting used to having fun while dripping with sweat. We're going to be hot, might as well have fun! Henry and I played catch this morning and Ruby is all over her new princess book she got from the library (how many princess books can that little library possibly hold???!). Life is good, when we remember to turn around and thank God for all his kindnesses. In fact, it leaves little time for self-pity parties!

We've had two playdates in the last two days and the kids are exhausted tonight. Thankfully, because I am too. Our playdate this morning was fun, and I had a great talk with a new friend on the way home. A couple of friends and I took the kids to a local restaurant after school today for a spontaneous snack/chat. I am reminded of how many great women God has put in my life both here and at home. Thankful for each one!

Everybody Wants To Go To Heaven (But Nobody Wants To Die)

PART I

It's a quirky little song but I like it. And it's why Henry was getting a malaria test this morning, after a spiky fever overnight and complaining of several of the other ambiguous symptoms of malaria this morning. All of which could also be from simply getting overheated, and it is HOT here.

Looking back, there were several things I would have done differently this morning. Ruby getting to school should have been my first priority, and I let myself be pulled off course by my concern for Henry. In reality, the outcome of the blood test did not change Ruby's need to get to school on time.

Also, I would not have announced to Henry that he was going to be giving me a blood sample. It seems three year olds are not so keen on having their finger stabbed (as Henry eloquently stated), and five year old sisters sometimes get a sick satisfaction out of telling their little brothers how much it is going to hurt.

Some dear loved ones sent us a little pen-gun thingy that holds a small needle; you just open the end, load the needle in, twist off the plastic needle protector, replace the end of the pen, and push a button and it quickly makes a jab into the digit of your choice, to an adjustable depth. I loaded in the needle, but its little plastic protector wouldn't twist off. So I held it up close to me for better leverage, and somehow managed to stab myself in the chest (don't worry, the needle is only a few millimeters long) and bent the needle doing it.

Replacement needle loaded, I went off in search of my patient. Following his screams, I quickly found him face down on his old bed, which, I tenderly noted, must make him feel some sort of comfort. At this point, he had been screaming and running around the house for almost ten minutes while I gathered Ruby's lunch and the malaria test. Fortunately for me, he was pretty tired and didn't attempt anything violent when I grabbed his little hand and quickly cleaned and stabbed his middle finger. It was the biggest target, and he has been giving me the middle finger all day to show me how he feels.

After the prescribed 15 minutes' wait, the test announced Henry's blood drop was negative for malaria, and we took Ruby to school 30 minutes late. Somehow, I still ended up Henry's hero and he demanded I hold him continuously (except for the truck ride) for the next hour. The finger was fine when I was holding him; he was in unbearable pain when I wasn't.

The wonders and beauty of heaven are mysteries we try to build into our children, yet the thought of them actually going there terrifies us. Which brings me to Part II of this post....

PART II

Gillis Dillion died this morning. Well, last night where he was. It was actually the first thing I read on the internet this morning when I was looking at email, and it stunned me. Thinking of his sweet wife, his perfect partner, spending her first day in decades without him, his adult children (who really are crowns on the heads of this couple) and grandchildren (Gillis was kind of everyone's brother/dad/granddad though) living in a new-old world without someone so central to it - all of this has dominated my thinking today.

My first instinct when something goes wrong is to ask, "What went wrong?" And while there will be a medical explanation, that does not fix the problem of the pain his family and friends are experiencing.

Yet I find myself asking, "Did anything go wrong?" Are we promised tomorrow? Is death no longer part of life?

When my sister died many years ago, I remember watching her take her last breaths, and being in shock when they stopped. The silent break from life into death was nothing, yet blindingly fierce. And when my dad died a few years later, I felt the same desperate desire to reach backward and re-live those moments before he died, even as they raced into the distant past.

God and I had harsh (well, most of the harshness was on my part) words over those years and the few that followed. I went from a trusting, optimistic young teenager whose sister was diagnosed with cancer to a young woman who couldn't believe what was happening to my family to a very angry woman feeling picked on by the God who was supposed to love me. I was pretty sure God could handle my words and thoughts, and kept telling him what I thought even though at times I seriously doubted his existence. What kind of loving God allows this? Really?!

Fortunately for me, God is patient and loving and didn't pitch me for all the unkind things I said to him. "I believe - forgive my unbelief" took on new life for me after that time. Still I am seeing new beauty even from the painful parts of that time, beauty from God's patience and plan. God was always there; he was always faithful. I was like a butterfly in a hurricane.

Yet here I am over ten years later, asking the same questions. How could you let this happen? Could you not see what this man meant to his family? Why not kidneys for my pregnant friend's baby, who will die soon after birth without them? What are these things to you?!

And the answer, which in my moments of submission I hear clearly: faith.

Jean-Pierre de Caussade, in the classic The Sacrament of the Present Moment, presents,

"To live by faith, then, is to live in joy, confidence, certainty and trust in all there is to do and suffer each moment as ordained by God. However mysterious it may seem, it is in order to awaken and maintain this living faith that God drags the soul through tumultuous floods of so much suffering, trouble, perplexity, weariness and ruin. For faith is needed to discover in all this God and that divine life which can neither be seen nor felt but, nevertheless, in some mysterious way, unmistakably reveals itself."

Easier said than done. Still, this time around I'm willing to give God the benefit of the doubt, that he is still who he says he is. The answers of how these and other painful situations will benefit anyone remain largely unknown. But this time, even as I struggle with they whys and hows and what the-s, I'm believing that God is big and I am not and that he is in charge of the situation. And I am not.

One thing I am as sure of as a mortal can be...Gillis Dillon has bravely (after all, who wants to die?) left this finite world for one infinite. And we can unite in faith to pray for his wife, Barbara and their sweet family, that God will carry their broken hearts until they can manage again, and that over time, the mysteries of this faith will become more visible to all of us.

The Generator Dilemma (or lack thereof)

In many years of camping, the flashlight (or torch as they call them here) has gone from being a must-have for me to being something of a pest. I once believed it gave light and allowed me to see, but over time I realized that its artificial light only allowed me to see a very small circle and actually made the much more powerful light of nature dim in the greater area around me. So for several years I have hiked sans torch, with one notable exception being a foolhardy night trip out of the Grand Canyon that I may tell you about someday. ;)

And so it has gone with air conditioning here in Africa. Power cuts, or rationing, are the topic of many a mzungu conversation lately. Our first two months in Dar were rich with rain, occasional flash flooding and fun critters like giant snails and beetles that accompany dampness.

The next several months were marked by an occasional, maybe monthly or every fortnight, power cut lasting no more than four or five hours. They seemed almost idyllic - eating dinner by candlelight and doing puzzles afterward with the kids wearing headlamps. Or a few hours without power in the middle of the day - we barely noticed, as we don't run our air conditioners during the day, relying instead on occasional breezes that come through when the windows are all open.

The last two months, however, have seen power outages increasing almost weekly. With the exception of the two weeks Len's parents visited, which featured all-night and completely random and long outages, the power cuts have been recognizable as being either all day (up to 12 hours) or evening (from around 6 to around 11 at night).

When we moved here, we had money budgeted for a generator, which we thought we would purchase immediately. However, since we didn't really need it at the beginning, we waited. It is too easy to stay in an air conditioned room, and honestly I was worried that if I got into the habit of using the A/C except on hot nights, I would be tempted to stay inside instead of enjoying what living in Africa has to offer.

When it began to heat up in October, we were ready to buy a huge generator that was within our budget and would have operated everything in the house, including the A/C. But we didn't feel at peace with the purchase. It was a lot of money and would have provided much convenience, but we were doing fine without it.

As the weeks of power cuts continue (we had six power cuts last week alone) with increasing frequency, it is still tempting to get a generator - even one just to power the freezer if a longer outage emerges (theives are known to target transformers and copper wiring from electric plants) - but the longer we don't have one, the more we question if we really do need one.

It would be easy to complain about the heat - it is wet and hot and if mind is allowed to wallow in its misery, it could remain there most of the day. However, another spiritual benefit to living in Africa is that thankfulness requires only to look outward from ME, my fickle feelings and desires, and see how blessed we are. We live in a neighborhood of very mixed means. Some neighbors have nice concrete houses with tile roofs similar to ours, with walls and gates and guards, yet most live in the open or in single, stick and mud rooms with tin roofs without running water or ANY power at all. It is humbling to remember when I am inwardly moaning over the click of the power going off that it means nothing for those who never have power. They wash their laundry by hand, carry (dirty) water in buckets for drinking and cooking and cleaning, and have no way to get around except by foot. Even 200 shillings for a daladala (bus) ride is impossible for many here. And it is a two mile walk to get to the nearest bus stand anyway.

Yes, we are blessed. I would be blind not to see it in Africa or anywhere we live. I am thankful to God for challenges that grow us and allow us to embrace the gifts therein. Every cooling breeze is as if the Holy Spirit himself is coming to remind us of his goodness and faithfulness and with-us-ness. The air conditioning we enjoy on these hot nights reminds us as well. But in searching, we are finding answers to the heat that are in step with our worldview as stewards of natural and financial resources entrusted to us. We are seeing parts of ourselves we didn't want to see, such as finding undue comfort in things of the world, and are able to work on trusting God more. We are able to feel connected with our African neighbors even as we realize how deep the socioeconomic valley goes.

Ah, contentedness. Joy in embracing where God has me, right now.

Postscript: We are looking into a system of rechargable batteries, possibly with solar panels, that would allow us a few lights and maybe freezer power in the darkness. The noisy, smelly diesel-powered generator is not for us, and I am thankful as we continue to wait for God to order our steps in this matter, in His time and as he teaches us patience.

In Jr. High school, my dad asked me a question, "Laura, if you had the choice of getting a thousand dollars a year for the rest of your life, or starting with a penny the first year but doubling it every year for the rest of your life, which would you choose?"

I immediately chose the thousand dollars option. A thousand dollars could buy a lot of cassette tapes in the '80s, and Quiet Riot's "Metal Health" was newly released.

He then patiently explained to me how the second option, starting with only a penny the first year, would surpass the annual income of the other at year 18, and in 30 years, I could either have $30,000 or $10, 737,544 from the exercise.

Being all of 14, and clearly more intelligent than my parents, I immediately went away and forgot his story. Or so I thought.

While my net worth is nowhere near ten million dollars, one part of my life that has grown exponentially is what I don't know. Or, more specifically, what I am aware I don't know. And with that, what I want to learn. For example, Mr. Sherrow's government and history classes in high school gave me a taste for all things history - how fascinating to study the rhythms and riddles of civilizations and people who have come before.

And so my curiosity and desire to learn everything about everything has grown through sheer interest (World War II, Russian political models, penal system reform, political strategy, first ladies, migration patterns for various birds, the life of the green heron, textile production, glass blowing...the list goes on forever) as well as through need (biochemical functioning of the human brain, effects of aluminum, mercury and other vaccine ingredients on the human nervous system, autism and related conditions, gluten free and dairy free diets, African culture, and a thousand others that line up as things that must be understood.

But there is a third area of interest as well, things that I should try to understand, even though they might seem less urgent. Things like how do I practice my belief that all people should be treated with dignity when I am employing someone at less than a living wage? How do I balance paying that person more than the local going rate with the ire of other expats for my raising the going rate? What does it mean in my life to integrate God's Word into every aspect of life? Who is my neighbor? How do I handle a person who repeatedly says one thing to my face, and then others filter back to me that the person has said something contradictory? Am I obligated to do anything other than forgive and move on? Or am I required to continue to lovingly give the person chances to tell the truth and release their anger? What of my Christian beliefs are seeded in sinful humanity and what in God's will? Why can't you give my friend's dying baby kidneys, God? Hem of your garmet, God. It's nothing to you.... And these...these maybe go on even longer than the other two groups.

My understanding, however, plods on about the same each year. I will set aside books to read, I will pray for supernatural understanding and God's wisdom, I will ask and be given occasionally extra time in the day beyond what it should give. But even at my lowly maximum production, what I am capable of learning shrinks annually in the shadow of those things I have realized I wish to know.

Don't get me wrong; I am quite content with all of this. I am thankful that God is big and I am little. Someday the questions will be answered, and I will understand the unknown and misunderstood. It is humbling to realize my smallness in the world, my finite speck amidst infinity. Comforting, even. But this mind cannot stop scratching forward in tiny outward movements nontheless.

A Thousand Words

Maximum fun our last day of break...Ruby is back in school today.

Henry was searching for her with his fearsome sword; she triumphantly appeared when all was clear!